


Rhyolite

by Echinoderma



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echinoderma/pseuds/Echinoderma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhyolite is an igneous, volcanic rock, of silica-rich composition. Rhyolites that cool too quickly to grow crystals form a natural glass or vitrophyre, also called obsidian.</p>
<p>---<br/>Almedha, Ike, and Soren. Not all reunions are pleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhyolite

**Author's Note:**

> [thinks about almedha and flicks lights on and off] welcome to hell!!!!!!! welcome to hell! !!!! !!  
> written very disjointedly over the course of a few months (slow i know), so hopefully everything still lines up with all the rearranging i did.

An odd kind of heat spreads through him; shivers, and the beginnings of a cold sweat settling over him as he strides down the hallway.

Almedha has a soft jaw, delicate hands and long, cascading curls of hair; black in the shadows but emerald green where the light catches. Her mark is stark and crimson on her skin, twisting over her left brow, the same shade as her eyes. 

(It’s sweltering, a fire that burns at his core, but his palms are ice against his flushed and fevered skin.)

The encounter lingers with him, weighs like lead on his mind as he sits motionless at the desk with only a quickened heartbeat to betray his anxieties. A toxic, dreadful distraction on the edge of his awareness.  
\------

There’s a feast, of course. Ike supposes it’s what would pass for ‘rowdy’ among these haughty, beady-eyed nobles. For once, the chatter about them is not the hushed and secret 'there go the mercenaries'- they revel in his presence, as if he were some shiny, gaudy centerpiece held before flocks of magpies. The rest of his group prefers the edge of the crowd, the lesser-known members no doubt stealing away plates of food to smuggle back to the real celebration later. 

Baubles and candles are strung about the walls, a fire roaring in the hearth, bards and jesters strewn about the ballroom. It is festive, for sure, but Ike finds himself wishing to hide away in his quarters, maybe with a flagon of mead in one hand and a whetstone in the other.

At the front of the room lies a lengthy, polished dinner table stuffed with aristocracy. Elincia sits, radiant, at the center, flanked by her advisors and newly minted allies. The Dowager Queen of Daein sits as well, the prince- the king- at her side; Kurthnaga easily charms the ranks of upper Crimea despite his laguz blood. Clad in royal silks, a small yet genuine smile hidden behind his splayed fingers. Almedha sits like a shadow, a wraith, beside her brother. The party passes by her, her eyes tracking something moving along the far back wall. 

Try as he might, ike cannot avoid the nobles that gather around him, empty praise and meaningless chatter, a thousand proposals for marriage and knighthood. He wears his mercenary garb, scratched and dented steel and leather almost worn through, but in the wake of his legendary deeds his appearance is not an effective deterrent. 

A flash of black catches his eye. Soren looks as dour as he, trapped in conversation with another young sage; he cuts him off with a cross set of words and glides through the crowd to ike's side.

"This celebration is nauseating,” he mumbles, fingers pressed to his temples. “...And these nobles are insultingly stupid."

Ike folds his arms and tries to hide his smile in his cloak. “They smell bad too.” 

Soren exhales through his bared teeth, something approaching laughter reaching Ike’s ears. “The archsage wants me to stay and study with him. Help train the tacticians in preparation for any… future crises.” 

As if there were anything he could teach me, Ike thinks in Soren’s voice. As if he had anything I would find worthwhile. 

Around them, the crowd seems to fade away into a shapeless mass, a thousand chattering birds and their constant, unyielding drone. All these people, he feels uneasy; Ike fidgets with the frayed hem of his cloak as he nods along to Soren's words (he had a lot to say about this old scholar, these inane and tired traditions of revelry.)

And while he knows the nobles are harmless, he cant help the restless shiver that runs down his spine.

(His instincts are screaming, still screaming for combat. The crowd is thick and heavy with sweat, with heat and the Daein Queen is watching them, has been watching them the whole time.)

"Well," Soren says after a time. “If you have no need of me, I would like to retire.” 

Nodding, he gives Soren the go ahead and watches him cut through the crowd and disappear up the tall, spiral stairway. When he looks across the room, he sees Almedha watching too, composure cracked and hands wringing, trembling against the table.

\---------------

The walk to his quarters does nothing to dispel the restless energy in his chest; soren paces the length of the bedroom and pretends to examine the decor, the extravagance wasted on a room occupied perhaps only twice through the entire year.

He doesnt want to think about it, the dark flush that spreads across his neck when the two of them are in the vicinity. A warm pull on his subconscious.

Soren stops right before the mirror, twists a loose lock of hair around his finger. He had suspicions on the boat to Begnion, those years ago; seeing them in person merely affirmed his convictions. His blood sings out, flows hot and heady through his network of veins, attempting to clear the frost from his soul-

Rationality, reality, intervenes- restrains his fledgling instincts and pulls him back down to some semblance of calm; aside from appearance he can barely imagine a connection between himself and the mother he had never known. it doesn’t matter, he decides, the revelation underwhelming at best. A salve and bandage applied to a wound that had long since scarred over.

\------------  
it’s easy to steal away from the ballroom, escape the bawdry yells and saturated color, the flickering firelight that casts long, wavering shadows on the wall. she nearly takes the stairs two at a time until she reaches his room, feels the soft thrum of his presence in the back of her mind, sparks at her fingertips. (his aura is hard and cold, solid glacier ice behind the door)

She knocks, twice, anticipation heaving hard in her chest. He answers, dressed in loose bedclothes and lit by the glow of candles- red and orange-yellow bounding off the loose locks of his hair. 

“Lady Almedha? what is it you need?” low and sleep-rough, almost like a growl. it takes her seconds to remember to respond to his question, .

“Soren, yes. Just- a few questions. please?”

Offhandedly, he wonders if perhaps the false diplomacy of nobility is rubbing off on him. Nodding and stepping aside, he watches her swoop in, standing stock still in the middle of the room. 

She clears her throat, looks around his spare and spartan quarters, the leather bound volume filled with small, tidy script. 

“You- you have served the commander long?”

Soren nods, tired of this new phenomenon of talking about himself at length. He pretends the sconce by his bed holds some great portion of his interest, waits for her to speak again, or preferably, leave.

(It's eerie, to look her, to stare her in the eyes. A distorted reflection, the same pattern of stress and trauma shown in the dark shadows of her face.)

"Would you mind telling me- how did you come under his employment?"

An innocent enough question, but his service stems from such intimate feelings- he can hardly speak of his time with ike without conveying the depths of his devotion. It isn't her business, at all, so he clears his throat and doesn't hide the agitation from his voice.

"I found them. I asked for a job and his father hired me. That's all." At at this hour, after the crowds and the nausea of being stared at, he feels his tolerance for her intrusion snap, 

“... And before that? Where did you live? Where are you from?” 

Soren’s mouth dips at the corners, lips pressed tight and bloodless, and he feels a deep, primal fear grip him. That she would so brazenly ask him these questions about his past, searching for answers to his heritage-

He can’t help the little twitch of his lips, the urge to bare his teeth. “That,” he says, “is enough. Leave.”

-and she does, giving him a pointed stare before slipping out the door; walking with a trembling gait down the long, long corridor to her own quiet chambers.

\------------------------

“Ike.”

People call soren cold, emotionless, aloof, uncaring- but to ike he is never any of those. Especially not now, with his flighty agitation and the slight upturn of his brow. He doesn’t mind playing interpreter, he’s fluent in this language. 

“Lady Almedha has been following me.” 

“Oh?” He’s noticed it too, the way almedha lingers in Soren’s wake no matter where in the castle he traverses. “I have been seeing her more often in the past few days.”

“Three nights ago she came into my quarters. Asked me questions.”

“Questions?”

 

“About myself,” he hisses, curling inwards. Ike treads carefully, stands still beside the bed for a second before settling down next to him.

Soren looks exasperated, suspicion glinting in his scarlet eyes. “ About where I’m from. About where I’ve been.”

"I'll talk to her for you- if you want," he adds at the affronted look on Soren's face. "Just to be sure it’s nothing- dangerous.”

\-------------------

Coincidentally, thankfully, he doesn’t have to track her down. Almedha all but crashes into him near the end of their stay, her usual cold demeanor taking backseat to some kind of frantic, bright-eyed mania.

They hide away in an empty guest room, the curtain drawn and the room lit only by the dim glow of sunset that leaks through the edges.

"Almedha," he starts, clearing his throat. "Soren- I wanted to talk to you. About."

A little raise of her shoulders and a long exhale follow. She looks as if she might brush him off with some disdainful comment, but instead she leans back in her chair, glancing at over her shoulder just to avoid looking him in the eye.

“You know what he is.” Straight to the point. Almedha doesn’t look shocked or disgusted, doesn’t look much of anything other than desperate, wretched. “He told you this himself. It is fact.”

It's a sudden, sensitive topic; the nod of his head almost feels like betrayal, but there's no point in trying to hide what they both already know. “... Yeah.” 

“I knew it. I had sensed the presence of- something. I could not pinpoint it earlier but now... Of course, it is him.” She presses her palm to her mouth, something ugly brewing beneath her melancholy expression. “I am certain, now... Parentless. Of course.” 

(The word leaves him on edge. He remembers Soren shaking in his arms as he recalled his past, remembers the occasional whispers of Laguz soldiers that he happened to overhear. Malicious, suspicious. He always gripped his sword a little tighter, as he walked.)

Perhaps he’s still a little paranoid from the war, perhaps he’s just tired of dealing with those terms, but Ike flexes his hand in absence of his blade. “I know how the Laguz feel about the Branded. I do not make threats lightly, Lady Almedha. But if you hurt Soren, I will kill you.” 

Laughter from behind the fingers pressed to her lips, utterly mirthless as it rings about them. "There's no need to try and intimidate me, Commander. I’m not here for- that. "

She continues. “But if you're true to your word, then strike me. I have hurt him worse than anyone ever could, ever has.” She stares at him, stricken, face half hidden by hair tangled around her palm, one ruby eye showing through her fingers. “I left him, deserted him, I brought him into the world as nothing more than a pawn. My own son, torn away from me and could do nothing- nothing- to stop him.” 

Her son? 

The wood cracks under the force of her hand, palm slammed into the table and Ike stays silent as he witness the breadth of her grief. 

“...I wonder if I should have died, all those years ago. What purpose do I have now?”

“You think Soren is your son?” 

Ike scrunches his brow as her shoulders tense and she breathes raggedly against the back of her hand. A moment marked by the hollow sounds of her sobbing, he waits quietly for her composure return. “You have wondered, have you not? What tribe his blood hails from.” Almedha makes a tired, broken little noise. “Did you know? He looks like my older brother.” 

“...Rajaion," he says. “The crown prince.”

A stricken look falls over her and she flinches. It stops her for a beat, before she continues in her wavering tone. “...Yes. It is a striking resemblance. The family blood is strong in him- considering the alternative, I am glad." She dabs at her eyes, wrings her fingers. "He is mine. I am certain of it." 

"I thought Pelleas was-"

"Pelleas!" she scoffs, cutting him off. "I heard he had been found and I wanted- I wanted so desperately for it to be true. But he is no dragon, not even of the Branded. I was blind to it all, Commander, I see now... I was blind with grief and dreams alike, clinging to my false hopes, the remnants of my memories." 

She leans into her palms, elbows on the table and hair falling about her face, spilling onto warm, polished surface. "And here, again, I am... without him," she whispers. "I stand before him and still, he is out of my reach."

Ike shifts his weight, unsure of how to proceed; fumbling to find the words to comfort this half-stranger. A gut feeling is all it is, but ike believes her, sees the slightness of soren's body and the phantom of his mannerisms in the woman before him. There’s such a vast grey area between them, so much he doesn’t know about Almedha and Ashnard, Soren and the Dragon tribe-

"...He won't go with you." That, at least, is something he feels qualified to speak about.

Her exhale is shaky, ancient. "I wouldn't expect it. I see he has eyes only for one. He doesn’t care for… our kind."

(Ike trusts his intuition; the resentfulness he hears is not imaginary.)

"...Again, i've missed my chance." Almedha turns towards the window, eyes distant and clouded in her self-reflection. "My father, my brother: both died in service of their ideals. And now my son lives only for you. My kin, we are always throwing ourselves away for some greater purpose, regardless of what becomes of our individual selves. Family, king and country, Goddesses... Our sense of loyalty is perhaps one of our greatest flaws."

She makes a soft click with her tongue, taps her claws against the table. “Had my brother been a bit more selfish, he would still be alive. Had my father, perhaps he would burned Daein to the ground. Perhaps this whole war would not have happened. Perhaps my son wouldn’t have been born. My actions… The Royal family almost wiped out because of me.” 

“Thats-” he stops, wets his lips before continuing. "... I'm sorry, Almedha."

Outside, the sun dips below the horizon, and the room is reduced to the dull greys of shadow, dark and looming, the two of them dwarfed by the tall, darkened walls. 

“Commander,” she rasps suddenly, breaking the silence. “You once asked if there was something you could do for me?”

Ike remembers losing someone he loved, remembers sleepless nights with his restless mind, yearning for closure. It’s hard to imagine suffering that uncertainty for a millenia. All the dragons he’s encountered, their emotions run deep and turbulent, cut down to the marrow, driving them to great lengths for the ones they love- 

(it must hurt.)

"I just-" she says, haunted, leaning forward and grabbing Ike's forearm. Her nails are long, pointed- claws, really- and ike grits his teeth as his body tenses at the contact. Despite their proximity, she speaks more to herself than to the man standing in front of her. "I just want to speak to him. I just want him to know i'm sorry."

\-------

He doesn't know what to do, after that. Soren looks over his shoulder every half-second and scarcely leaves his side. Ike sees almedha out of the corners of his eyes; their conversation comes to mind every time he thinks to send her away for good. 

“I don’t think she means anything by it,” Ike says. Castle Crimea is filled with cracks, with little alcoves to hide them away. Shoulder to shoulder in some little hovel at the base, where rainwater and vines have pushed apart the masonry, far from the fabricated castle culture so they can spend some hours in each other’s familiar presence. "Maybe just talk to her, Soren." 

“Talk to her?” His companion draws symbols in the dirt, shakes his head to clear the tangles of sable hair that fall into his eyes. His lips turn upwards briefly, makes a hard little sound that might be laughter in the mouth of any other (almedha was like that too, wasn’t she?) “Why bother? There’s nothing between us. I don’t want anything to do with her.”

Ike runs his hand through his hair, lets a long breath out through his teeth. “Just… Kurthnaga told me what happened to her, y’know. It’s not-” 

A brusque, scathing laugh. “Not what, Ike? Not her fault? I assure you, it has nothing to do with anything so petty as blame.” 

“Then what is it? I mean, even if she didn’t raise you- she’s still your mother, Soren. She’s still your family.”

“She is not my family,” he snarls, snapping the stick in his clenched fist; Ike finds it strange to be on the receiving edge of even a fraction of Soren’s infamous temper. 

“She is,” he counters, giving Soren a long, level look. “You don’t have to- open up. I know you like your privacy. But you don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. Maybe this is your only chance for closure.”

“...Closure.” He leans away, propped up on the hard stone surface.

“You’ve got a second chance.” Carefully, Ike rests a hand on Soren’s slight, slender shoulder. “I don’t want you to regret not taking it.”  
\---------

It's hard for him to sleep that night, inundated with intrusive, unwarranted thoughts. Pressed against Ike's back, his mind wanders against his will to the look of her face in the candlelight, the loose hair down her back, the revolting feeling of familiarity that had caught in his throat.

\--------

The castle library is huge, cavernous, lined with pale grey marble, ebon shelves that almost bow under the weight of their books. Tall, vaulted ceilings, arching windows, the sky outside overcast and bland as it had been for the past week. 

Still the festivities continued, the the revelry dimmed but by no means extinguished. The library remained sterile and empty and cold, uninhabited, save for Soren, hidden in a lofty alcove, and Almedha, who had followed and remained, watching him from a distance.

Slowly, agonizingly, she steps into his space and Soren bristles, grits his teeth and narrows his eyes, pulse speeding, pounding in time with the heartbeat rattling in his chest. 

The ancient language swims on the page before his eyes. He will ignore her as long as he is able. 

Then, suddenly: "I have done you a great disservice."

She sounds apologetic. Soren doesn't care. (He doesn't, he doesn't, but it's different when she's there, an invasive, intruding presence.)

"...What is it that you want with me, Lady Almedha?" 

Halting, haunted words."I would just like to talk."

"No," he says, a little quicker, a little louder than intended, a little too raw. "What is there to talk about? If you would have me speak about the war, I shall decline. If you would have me speak about myself, I shall decline further." 

"I-"

The chair screeches against the marble as he rises, the snap of his book echoing slightly within the room.   
He means to brush past her, to leave and not look back, but at her side something holds him, slows his steps as if his legs were weighted with padlocks and chains.

(Stop)

"Soren." 

He wants to scream, he bares his teeth. This is the third time she's called out to him and he's tired of it, sick of confronting these truths. The sound of his name in her mouth is a disgusting, infuriating thing. Blood runs boiling hot down his clenched fists, spilling from where his nails break the skin of his palms (red like that mark, that damned mark). Something presses outward from his skull, threatens to split his head in two, the ache magnified at the center of his brow, his curse- 

His thoughts are nothing but vile, virulent poisons; should she wish so strongly for him to speak he supposes he might oblige.

(He thinks her damaged and worthless and easily deceived, struck down and cursed for the crime of her womb. A useless queen robbed of her birthright by her own stupid, childish actions.) 

Frustration brings fire to his cheeks, flushes his skin an angry, livid red and he cant help but hiss through his long, clenched teeth. 

Almedha makes him furious. Her plight, her suffering, he doesn’t want to care about her. Even with all that he’s seen- violence, corruption, malevolence, hubris- something about her fuels an inarticulate animal rage inside him. Wrathful and seething, a tempest, a storm; he feels destructive, his mind clamoring and ruinous as natural disaster. It has nothing to do with him, he wants nothing to do with her, he can only drive her away so many times before his patience frays to nothing.

Nerve-wracked, and yet-

He stays still despite the turmolt of his thoughts, words failing to rise in his throat. They stand only inches apart, the air alive with nervous energy, atmosphere heavy and thunderous. Anticipation for a break in the coiling tension that will never come. 

(she is nothing, now, and what he reads are just echoes of what she once had.)

Almedha reaches out. Soren takes a half-step back.

(Stay)

(Please)

How dare you he wants to spit, indignation eating at his mind, leaving him a blackened, burned out husk, blood scorching in his veins. Instead, he stands braced and ready to strike, tendons jumping along the lengths of his arm.

Almedha’s hand is lightly calloused and fever-warm on his skin and he barely feels her fingers brush against his mark; the shock of it keeps him still, awe at the audacity of her to stand near him, to touch him-

(What gives her the right?) 

Snarling, he slaps her hand away, backing up until he hits the table with trembling legs.

(Anxiety and distress, her mind is twisted, damaged, emotions raw and rotting and bloated like a carcass. A spiral of grief that leaves her uncertain, unfocused except for him- a child she knew only as a sickly, silent infant lying wide eyed in her arms)

The ache of loneliness is so, so familiar and for a second it's like staring at his own reflection)

"It is you," she whispers. Soren finds himself sickened by her quiet reverence. "My blood. My son."

All he hears is the deafening rush of blood in his ears, the heavy thud of his heart contracting. 

“No,” he hisses, digging into the surface behind him, smears of crimson left wherever he touches. “I’m not.” 

“I thought you had died. For so long I thought you had died.” She swallows, a strangled little wail escaping her lips. 

"You say you are my mother? Then you abandoned me." Cold and venomous, whispered from the back of his throat. It feels good, to watch her flinch at his words. "This brand- this curse. All because of you; You, the sub-human who went to rut with the Mad King himself." 

It isn’t blame. Just fact. "You looked upset. Tell me Lady Almedha, if I am who you say, is there any wonder your child lived so wretchedly?"

His voice is heavy, black with the hatred that for so long has sat in his chest. He finds the strength to lunge forward, thin hands digging into her wrist with viciousness, skin gathered under his nails and blood welling in the cuts, mingling with his own. 

(so stark, the differences and the similarities between them, skin bone white and faded desert tan, but the same slender framework underneath.)

Soren finds it hard to speak through his gritted fangs. "You say you are my mother. You must understand why I have little desire to reconcile."

"I didn’t meant for it to happen. I didn’t want to give you up,” Almedha whispers, low and frantic, desperate tones. “You must believe me, I had nothing, I was powerless. Please, I-" 

“Listen to yourself! Powerless you say, but who is it that suffered for your weakness?” Almedha is a foot above him but he pulls her down to look into her (his) red, red eyes. “I starved, I was beaten, reviled and hated for the blood that you gave me. And you say you had no choice but to let me face that alone?” 

For years, he’d imagined her face, dispassionate and uncaring; disgust and indifference are things that are no strangers to him but it is her sympathy, her longing that he finds truly incomprehensible.

(infuriating.)

(He’s shaking, eyes hot and wet, Almedha blurring before his face, swaths of obsidian green and olive-skin and that damned, damned red-)

He leaves her frozen in sorrow, in heart-wrenching, soulful agony. "Soren. I’m-"

"-Don’t."

Her hands on his jaw, soft and tender and achingly intimate, thumbs stroking the high ridge of his cheeks. 

“Soren.”

“Don’t!” Soren interjects, clarity returning when he shoves her away, reedy fingers tangled in her dress before he pushes. Thin and wavering, his voice carries far in the empty, sterile space. "You don't need to say it. I don’t care." 

He’s already halfway out the door by the time she thinks to speak again.

(I’m sorry.)

\-----  
( That night, Ike feels him shift and shudder, the two of them sitting back to back on the bed. Maybe all of this was a bad idea after all. “Don’t cry.”

“I don’t want this.” Angry, whispered words breaking the silence stretched between them. “I hate her. I was better off not knowing.”)  
\-------

Soren is only at the ceremony by virtue of ike's presence. Hidden against his side, he makes no motion to voice any well wishes, no genuflections towards the newly crowned Prince of Dragons. 

"Commander." Almedha beckons for him before they depart, and they walk among the tall trees and waist-high bushes, Soren trailing leagues behind them in cold, indifferent silence. "Again, I must thank you. Should you ever find yourselves in Goldoa, do pay us a visit. Our family owes you a great debt." 

She stops, hands folded at her front- ike feels her look through him to the figure standing half hidden by the trees. Yards away, Soren crosses his arms and faces towards the castle, pretending to watch the fallen leaves rustle about the grass with great interest.

There’s a bandage wrapped around her wrist, a scrap of thin linen dotted with blood. “Things didn’t go well,” Ike says.

“No,” she replies, distant, rubbing at the cloth. “I imposed too much. I'm not surprised. It’s- nice, though, to see him alive and well, with purpose… I'd never dreamed i'd have the chance. It's all I can ask for. More than I deserve."

(He's right about her. The things he said. It makes her laugh- even their thoughts are similar.)

Almedha's smile is thin and drawn, highlighting the gauntness of her cheeks. “There's little else for me to do but wait. And in the grand scheme of things, you, Ike, will not live very long." She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, and continues,"perhaps when he has no one else, he'll want to seek us out."

\-----------------

They take off, and large as he is, Kurthnaga’s true form is but a speck against the brilliant backdrop of the sky. The dragons vanish into the distance and the heavy cloud of paranoia finally seems to lift from Soren’s shoulders. 

They leave the palace tomorrow, this time for good, hopefully. Hard, unyielding silence settles while they pack; rations and weapons, pouches of coin, worn traveling clothes. Ike does his best to keep his voice casual, inviting, as to not agitate Soren’s raw nerves after the troubles of the last few days. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Ike sees the little twitch of his jaw and the barest pause in his movements before Soren’s composure slides back into place. Impeccable, impenetrable. Voice steeled, guarded and weary. “...No.”

He doesn't press, knows it won't do any good, and he wishes for a tiny, fleeting moment that he would have the lifespan to see this conflict through.

**Author's Note:**

> i want soren and almedha to make up but lbr, he doesnt care about her and probably never will


End file.
